


boulder on your shoulders

by RenderedReversed



Series: this ain't no fairytale [8]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Item Shop AU, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recettear AU, Unreliable Narrator, adventurer!Tom, best read in series order, but it feels right to tag it now, not the first time, not the last, sorcerer!shopkeeper!Harry, war is no place for a kid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 14:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9275762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed
Summary: Sometimes, Harry recognizes that he's not okay.





	

It’s a trying process.

His small hands rub against the faded ink, parchment soft and crumbling. There are a lot of papers here—the village wasn’t all burned down, according to Hedwig—but he feels the strongest attraction to these. Maybe it’s because they’re the last remnants of Hedwig’s owner, a woman he’d never known. But Hedwig loves her, and he loves anything _she_ loves, so it’s all the same to him.

“Why do I even need a name?” he mumbles, and gets a cuff over the head for his troubles.

Hedwig’s wing retreats in a soft rustle of feathers. “Because you’re human,” she tells him, matter-of-fact and proud. “And all humans have names.”

“But I’ve got by just fine without one,” he argues. “You call for me, and I understand. What’s the point of having a name if I don’t need to use it?”

The beautiful white of Hedwig’s plumage eclipses his vision for a moment. _Snowy owl,_ she once told him—that’s what she is, just like how a vole is a vole and a snake is a snake, and he is human— _different from other owls_ , _better_. Then the white abates, leaving him face-to-face with two round golden eyes.

“You can’t stay here forever,” she says. “It is human nature to flock with other humans. And what will you do when you find a mate? Your human mate will not speak our language. They won’t understand how to call you without a name.”

The mere idea of leaving this place is enough to make him scrunch up his nose. He can’t imagine a life besides this village, hidden among the trees with Hedwig by his side. Pictures and drawings tell him what other humans can look like, but that’s all he knows. And to have a future with anyone but Hedwig by his side sounds ridiculous. He can’t imagine himself with a mate. Would other humans even like him?

Hedwig nips the bridge of his nose with her beak. “If you dislike names so much, what of mine?”

“I like it,” he answers, because he can’t imagine a world where Hedwig isn’t Hedwig either. “It suits you.”

He knows it will make her preen, and it certainly does. Hedwig puffs right up, stretching her neck proudly. “It is the name of a queen,” she says, as if he doesn’t already know from the hundreds of times before. “Not all owls have names, and among those that do, even fewer are named after queens.”

“Why can’t _you_ name me, Hedwig?” he asks. “Other humans do that, don’t they? You told me they don’t name themselves.”

“That’s different, dearest. I’m an owl—I can’t name you like a human. It simply isn’t done.”

Knowing a dismissal when he hears one, the parchment on his lap is suddenly a lot more interesting. Hedwig has little tolerance for disobedience. He must learn, she always tells him, else the other humans will think him stupid and chase him away. Regardless of whether he wants to meet other humans or not, the last thing he wants to do is disappoint his only friend. Hedwig is everything to him. Rather than humans, it would be worse if _she_ chased him away.

Not all the letters are legible. Some words are entirely blotched out, or eroded back to smooth paper like the pebbles in the riverbank. And yet, trouble aside, everything is familiar. Like many of the pages left behind, Hedwig uses them as tools to teach him how to read and write. Dorea wrote the prettiest letters, she always says. All humans should know how to write a letter.

“Hedwig, what about this one?” he asks, pointing to a line of text. “It starts with a capital letter, too! ‘H’, just like yours!”

Hedwig scoots closer, talons clinking against the floorboards. “‘Harr’…” she drawls, testing the sound. “I don’t think this is a name. It’s not something I’ve seen before.”

“But it starts with a _capital letter_!”

“Yes, but…” Hedwig scavenges through what little amount isn’t damaged. “Oh, that’s it. You forgot the ‘y’. It’s ‘Harry’, a very human name indeed.”

He frowns. “There’s a large space between. Are you sure that’s okay?”

“Of course it is. _I said_ it is. Or are you doubting me?”

In the face of Hedwig’s beady stare, all he can do is raise his hands in surrender. “No, never!” newly named Harry says. “‘Harry’—I like it. My name is Harry.” The ‘H’ makes him like it even better. ‘H’ has always been for Hedwig, and now it’s for Harry, too.

Hedwig dips her head once. “We aren’t finished quite yet. Humans have two names, sometimes more.”

“Two? That sounds…like a lot. Why would they need _two_?”

“Well, if someone else had your name, you could use your second one.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “Still sounds like an awful lot.”

“Dorea had three names,” Hedwig tells him. “So you’ll have at least two. How about ‘Potter’?”

“Potter?” It sounds a little sharp on his tongue. “Harry Potter. Harry Potter? Potter. What does it mean?”

Hedwig fluffs her feathers and hops up onto his thigh, now that it’s no longer covered in paper. “Dorea used to write many letters to a ‘Potter.’ I just remembered, and thought it suited you.”

Harry grins. Perhaps his friend actually wanted to name him all along. Maybe she didn’t want to mess anything up. Who knows what happens to a human named by an owl? Harry doesn’t know, and probably neither does Hedwig.

“I like it,” he says, and pulls her into a gentle hug. “Thank you.”

“Harry Potter is a fine name,” Hedwig tells him. “Now you must practice writing it.”

“Aw, _Hedwig_!”

“Humans will look down on you if you don’t know how to spell your own name.”

Harry sniffs. “I should’ve picked something easier, then…”

Hedwig’s head swivels. “Care to repeat that?”

“N-no, that’s okay! I’ll practice, I’ll practice!”

* * *

As the sun reaches its apex in that past world, the moon begins to descend in his. Harry wakes with a jolt, bed warm but feet cold, and he’s unsure what woke him in the first place.

Maybe…?

He doesn’t dare to move. The breath that had previously rattled between his teeth and past his lips stills, smooths, relaxes. How to feign sleep was one of the first lessons he was taught—it’s as easy as walking for him—no, as easy as crawling. The slow rise and fall of his chest is perfect. Harry doesn’t give away his straining ears or his ready hands at all. His magic builds beneath his skin and thrums.

In one burst of power, Harry pushes his magic outward, burning the room with its presence. Every nook and cranny a demon could hide in is exposed; no secret cavern or corner is left without exploration. Some of it leeks under the crack of his door, flooding to the rest of the house.

No demons. His hands tremble and his body curls up tight. _No demons._

The thought doesn’t comfort him as much as it should’ve.

Harry knows where he is—he’s home, in Hedwig’s, in Gryffindor, in Hogwarts, in Scotia. He is safe here. It’s a resting place, perhaps his final one, but Merlin knows where the tide will take him next. Regardless, time and waves have guided him here. That of the past is no longer obtainable, even for him—it’s a distant speck on the horizon, lost forever to the waters of fate.

And yet, Harry feels like it’s not. His head scrambles, and he knows where he is and he knows what’s happened to him, but another part of him doesn’t, and he thinks and he hopes that if he’s strong enough—if he’s loud enough—

His magic calls. It curls like the bud of a flower, then peels away to release its own sweet scent, one tailor-made for just one being.

When no one comes, Harry shifts and rearranges his bedding into a circular shape—his very own nest, built on the foundation of sheets, pillows, and blankets. He takes one of the folds behind him and pulls it over his head, sitting with his knees clutched tightly to his chest and the blanket his protective veil. It’s small and safe here, wrapped in his own scent.

His magic keeps calling, and no one comes.

Finally, Harry stretches an arm out from his nest, keeping it straight like a perch. There was a time in the past that someone _did_ perch there, and did so often—he knows that, knows it’s in the past, but his body refuses to listen. The instincts that drive him beg him to call. He cannot refuse them.

He holds his arm out until it gets tired. His upper body strength has never been good, but Harry can’t help but hope and urge himself to hold it for a little longer. Eventually, not even a little longer is within his abilities, and his arm falls like a puppet cut from its strings. The ache forces him to pull it back, clutching it to his chest like a demon might’ve sliced it off otherwise.

No one has come. There isn’t even the sound of wing beats, heavy in the night. Harry is still alone, and his magic cries at the realization. Alone, alone, alone; what’s the point of living alone? And if he’s alone, certainly she is as well—how is the land of the dead? She’s only an owl—is she getting bullied? Is she hurt?

Little Harry is all grown up now, but Hedwig isn’t around for him to protect. He can’t give back what he’s taken, what she’s given him—it’s all wrong, so wrong…

She never comes. He knows this, and it still kills him every time.

There’s a knock at his door. Harry jolts, blankets whirling as he wraps them tighter around himself. It’s only for a moment though, as in the next his magic tells him who it is. Not a demon, not a threat; it’s Tom. He completely forgot Tom was staying the night today.

“Tom,” Harry croaks.

Tom must’ve heard him, because he calls his name and asks, “Are you alright?”

Honestly, no. Harry isn’t alright. Even though he knows the answer, he stays silent anyway. Maybe Tom will leave, and he won’t have to ruin someone else’s night either.

“May I come in?”

Harry keeps quiet. Instead, his magic turns the doorknob and swings the door open for him.

The first thing Tom sees is the cocoon Harry’s made of his blankets. There must’ve been more, as well—for all of Tom’s ability to keep his magic sense a secret, Harry’s room must be as good as a lightshow for him.

“May I come closer?”

Harry nods.

Tom approaches, slow and careful. He gets close enough to kneel on the mattress, and closer still when he pulls Harry into his arms, blanket cape falling off somewhere behind them. It’s a good hug this time—warm, firm, but gentle. Tom still smells like linens and sleep. He’s still dressed in his night clothes, too—probably woke up because of Harry, and the thought makes him a little guilty.

After a moment of no complaint and even reciprocation, Tom rearranges them both into a more comfortable position within the nest. It’s so uncharacteristically soft here, swathed in comfy fabrics and furs. The truth is that Tom loves battle more than sleep, and the truth is that Harry’s had to condition himself to sleep on a mattress, but no one would know any of that by the sight of them.

“Did I wake you?” asks Harry. His voice is still a little hoarse, but it’s better than his first try.

Tom hums. “I felt your magic.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “Sorry.”

Tom tells him he doesn’t mind. “You were checking for enemies, at first. I was going to go back to sleep when you found none, but then it changed. I didn’t recognize the…movement, I suppose.”

Harry feels like he owes him an explanation. It’ll be a piss poor one, for sure—he’s not quite ready to talk about Hedwig by name yet—but a bad explanation is better than no explanation at all.

“The stuff that happened recently,” he starts, making a hand-wavy motion, “It brought back some memories, I guess? Not—not bad memories, but. Maybe. Maybe the good brought the bad, I don’t know.”

Tom rests his chin on Harry’s head. “Of the war?”

“Something like that,” he says. “Kinda. It was…around the same time, but earlier. I thought—I was checking for demons. Death came quickly to the watchers who fell asleep.”

“Did you ever go on watch?” Tom asks. Harry knows he doesn’t have to answer.

“Not much. Not really. I was just a kid—even with everything that happened, maybe they didn’t want to put that sort of pressure on me,” Harry replies, shrugging. “I can only think of one time that I did. They didn’t ask me to, but. Stuff happened. I kind of had to. No, mostly I heard stories.” He pauses. "Entire camps of adventurers died because the watchers fell asleep. We stumbled across one, once. It wasn't nearly as bloody as it sounded—it was more like, like, like a ghost town. Empty. Abandoned. Everyone was just, you know, gone. It was scary, but I didn't feel anything. I didn't know them. Ah, er—I was okay. Safe, relatively. It was fine. I'm fine. I'm alive, aren't I?"

Tom hums again; this time, Harry feels the vibrations at the top of his head. He's embarrassed at his own rambling, but Tom doesn't comment—just holds him without judgement. It's good, makes him feel small and protected. He can let go.

Slowly, Harry feels his beating heart begin to calm down. He’s still a little tense, but now that the blood’s back in his arms and there’s no danger in sight, it’s a little better. Tom brings him back to the present. He wasn’t there before in Harry’s past; Harry hadn’t even known he existed, but that’s for the best. He wouldn’t have wanted Tom to be beside him then anyway.

Tom is one hundred percent present, and that’s how it should be.

“It was a long time ago,” he mumbles. He doesn’t know if he’s talking to Tom or himself.

“Want me to stay here?”

The thought makes him flinch. Harry shakes his head and says, “No, it’s okay. I’m probably not going back to sleep anyway. Go back to bed.”

Tom nods and disentangles himself from the nest, lingering in the doorway, and then he’s gone. That’s the end to that. Harry feels like he’s lost something, though he doesn’t remember _gaining_ anything either.

His stomach rumbles.

“Hunger waits for no one,” Harry mutters, suddenly overcome with mirth. He gets out of bed. If he’s not going to sleep, then he might as well go eat something. A flick of his hand orders the excess magic to make his bed—the rest will fade soon, but it feels like bad manners not to do something with it. Harry heads for the kitchen.

The kitchen, where Tom is clearly not sleeping.

Instead of asking why, or what, or demanding that at least one of them get some rest, Harry takes one look at him and says, “I’m feeling rabbit stew today. Wanna go hunt?”

“I want boar.”

“We’ll get both,” agrees Harry, because one rabbit between the two of them won’t last the day.

Tom stands. “Better get moving then.”

They go; of course they go. If they’re able to follow their whims, why not? The sky is still dark when they leave, and when they come back from a hunt that was really more like hide-and-seek, the sky is lighter and a few people are in the streets heading for work. Magic means no one looks at them funny for carrying a boar and a rabbit. It’s good and therapeutic while Harry avoids a problem he doesn’t know how to fix.

He wonders, horribly and enviously, how Tom is so strong.

**Author's Note:**

> I asked for fluff and my muse gave me angst (and plot, I guess). *halfheartedly throws confetti* This should not surprise me.
> 
> Well, in reality I agonized over the ordering I wanted for the next couple oneshots, and I figured the fluffy one can go after we get over this tiny bump in the road. I think we're kinda overdue for a look through Tom's eyes anyway, so I'll! do! my! best!!!~*~*~*~*~*~*~
> 
> If you didn't get a feel from before (a lot of stuff happened in the last installment), here's your confirmation that something pretty bad happened to make Harry a hero. Cho, despite how Harry focuses on her a lot as the source of several of his problems, is more like the straw that broke the camel's back. Well, we'll just have to see how things go from here...
> 
> Get ready for some Tom-PoV!


End file.
